Darkness and the Star
by sodacreamorange
Summary: He's been teaching her how to play music, she wants to teach him how to make it. Modern AU, E/C
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: This one's been sitting my Doc Manager for some time now. Typical lesson phanfic. Not much plot, but might unravel into a bit of a short story fic for me to relieve me of my burning desire to write smut. Anyways... enjoy._

* * *

She watched his fingers glide over his instrument's fingerboard, his skin wrapped around his lengthy bones, muscle tensing as his hand rocked with vibrato. She was supposed to be following along in her music, but he was much more interesting to watch. His eyes closed, mouth slightly agape, body moving with the music while his feet kept their position flat on the floor. She drew her bottom lip in as he hit the highest note in the piece, his pinky finger stretching out and finding the correct spot on the fingerboard, the note perfectly in tune. She wished she could sound just as wonderful, or at the least mimic the sounds he created, produce a note that was in tune. Instead, everything she played was off. Flat. She had practiced. Time and time again she had practiced with a tuner and metronome. His voice was in her head, correcting her bow hold, her wrist, her posture. Still, she could not do it. She could never be good.

Christine missed the sound of her father's violin, the old folk tunes he would play her to sleep with when she was a child, the classical compositions he held so dear to his heart. She just wanted his music again. She never wanted his violin to go cold, to rest unplayed, so she asked Mamma Valerius if she could pick up some lessons. She felt silly doing so. As an adult, she was too old to ever be good enough to be a professional violinist, but she didn't care. She just wanted to learn, to understand the things her father understood, appreciate music in a new form.

Her teacher, Erik, was something of another world. Tall and alluring in spite of the mask. His sweet voice and enchanting playing made up for everything about him that made her feel somewhat discomforted. He never had to look at the music to play it. His fingers knew exactly where they needed to be. The way he played his violin was like he was making love to a partner. Like he had studied every inch of it, found what parts elicited the most delicious sounds.

They'd only had five lessons together. Five lessons, five hours alone in the drawing room of her and Mamma Valerius' home. She had made progress the first three, but these last two she had struggled to maintain focus. Her mind and eyes drifted to him as he played, demonstrating what each song should sound like. She tried blocking out the thoughts, but they grew louder with every crescendo of his instrument. Those hands and the way they moved, the way they made love to his instrument - she imagined them gliding over her body the same way, studying every inch of her and finding what parts of her elicited the most delicious sounds. His mask, she imagined the cool plastic tucking itself in the valley of her breasts, his thin lips kissing her stomach and singing into her skin. His tall, lithe body between her legs, bucking to and fro, sending her over the edge. Usually she only found those thoughts at night in the darkness of her room where she could take care of them within a few minutes, but now they followed her to her lessons, tapping her shoulder and whispering into her ear.

Erik finished the etude, his bow dropping before his eyes opened to find hers staring right back, her lips plump and parted slightly in a sort of breathlessness.

"Were you watching your music?" he asked, his voice just as beautiful as his playing. Christine had done this before in their previous lesson, his eyes opening to find her staring at him. He did not like it. He was used to being stared at, but he did not want lessons to become about him. They were supposed to be about the student, their playing and their abilities. Not his face.

Christine tensed, her shoulders drawing forward as she bit her lip. No. No, she was not watching her music. Erik exhaled a deep puff of air so hard that she could've sworn she felt it on her hands which were gripping tightly onto her father's violin and bow. He removed his violin from underneath his chin and turned towards his case which sat open in a nearby chair.

"I suggest you find another teacher," he spoke decisively, walking to put up his instrument.

"No!" Christine yelled urgently, afraid to lose her teacher.

Erik stopped at the high-pitched yelp and craned his neck to look at her, his eyes just as piercing as her voice. "I cannot continue with these lessons if you are not to show even a sliver of interest in anything other than my face."

Christine appeared to stumble for a second, her mind jumbling with the near-loss of her teacher and the surprise that he'd concluded her reason for staring was his face. "It's not that," she said, realizing quickly that maybe it would've been better to say that it was.

Erik turned back to her, his head cocking with curiosity. His eyes roamed over her for a brief second in an attempt to figure it out himself. "What then, if not my face?"

Christine swallowed. How could she tell him that it was his hands? Those beautiful, graceful hands which she longed for so. How could she tell him without revealing to him the extent of what she truly desired? She would have to make up something else. Yes, something. _Anything_ else.

Erik sighed in irritation. "It is my face," he muttered under his breath, speaking aloud but mostly to himself. This cursed face! The one thing that keeps him from having a normal life. The one thing that keeps him from being a successful entrepreneur. And now here he was again, another student incapable of completing the very simple task of listening and watching their music.

"No, it's not!" Christine insisted, quick to dissuade him. "It's not," her voice softened.

"What then?!" he demanded. He wanted so badly for it not to be his face. For once. Just once.

"I," she began, her chest rising and falling quickly, her brows furrowing and her lips pursing. Her eyes could not look at him. He was growing restless of this game. He wished she would just say it, say that it was his face that distracted her so, get it over with!

Christine closed her eyes, her palms sweating heavily on the wood of her instrument's neck and her bow's frog. She did not want him to leave, but at the same time she found her mind was incapable of coming up with a quick lie to lay his concerns to rest. She lowered her voice even more, the words emitted barely that of a whisper. "I want you to touch me."

Something pulsed throughout his body and everything seemed to still except his eyes which widened and his hands which clenched harder onto his violin and bow. A few moments passed before he spoke, an eternity to her. "You wish for me to touch you?" His voice was also merely a whisper, so soft in contrast to what it usually sounded like when it surrounded her at its usual volume.

She managed to open her eyes, his wide and blank with surprise. She imagined, beneath the mask, his brows were furrowed deeply like hers, a knot forming between them. "Yes," she answered breathlessly.

His mouth twitched for a moment, his chest rising as he drew in a deep breath of air. "But," he said, eyes flicking up and down for a moment. He swallowed, shaking his head ever so slightly. "I don't know how."

Christine stood still for a moment. His answer was not one of disgust. He did not speak against the act except for that he did not know how to touch her, how to pleasure her in the way she desired him to. She did not understand. How could he - this man who exerted so much sexuality through his voice and instrument and walk - not know a single thing about how to pleasure a woman?

She swallowed. "I could show you," she said, her thighs tightening with her own bought of courage.

Erik shook his head. "I don't know… I don't think I could…"

He was afraid, she realized. Afraid he could not please her. But she saw his hands. She watched how they grazed his instrument at their lessons. She saw them when she closed her eyes at night, between her legs, milking out every little pleasurable mewl from her. She knew the power they held within them. She, more than he, knew just what they were capable of.

"Yes you can," she assured him. Her fingers ran over her instrument for a second as she drew in her lower lip, her eyes flicking to his fingers which held his instrument so carefully. "Come," she said, beckoning him to follow her back to her bedroom.

Erik followed, instrument still in hand, eyes fixed on the back of her head, mind wondering what her hair smelled like, what her flesh tasted like. He'd allowed his mind to wonder these things once at their first lesson as Mamma Valerius led him into the drawing room where this beautiful girl sat pulling her father's old violin from his case. He allowed the thought once and then kicked it to the side. He would not fall victim to his own desires to feel her and hold her and whisper caring words into her ear. Mamma Valerius had informed him over the phone that she'd been a very sensitive girl lately, her father having just past recently. He wished to comfort her and let her know that everything would be fine, but he knew he could not. It was his job to teach her her instrument, not to console her on the loss of who it had once belonged to.

Christine set her violin and bow down in the chair of her room. Erik did so as well, fixing hers with his so that they laid flat side-by-side, no possibility of falling over and getting damaged. Christine walked back to her door, realizing it had not been shut and locked properly. As she turned, she found Erik looking around her room, his eyes settling on the framed photographs atop her dresser. Her, her mother, and her father all together smiling and bundled in winter clothes.

"Were you always so cute?" he asked, not noticing much of a change in her face except maybe that her cheeks had lost much of their baby fat.

He felt her hand on his now and looked up, facing her. Her smile was gentle, sad. She turned, pulling him with her to bed. They flopped down, their legs hanging over the edge, bent at the knee. He looked towards her, seeing her eyes faced towards the ceiling. He looked up as well to find a quote painted into the otherwise bareness of the ceiling.

"Stars can't shine without darkness," he read aloud.

Christine's hand crawled towards his, finding his palm facing downward. She slid her hand underneath his, fingers curling to grasp his hand closer to hers. He followed, their palms flush.

"Are you sure you want me to touch you?" he whispered, afraid Mamma Valerius might overhear.

Christine turned and so did he, their eyes boring into each others. "Yes," she breathed, not a hint of a lie within her single-worded reply.

"Are you…" he swallowed, "Are you going to show me how?"

Christine nodded, turning her body in the direction of her face. She pulled their locked hands up, opening her hand to press his palm to the mound of flesh which was her right breast. His fingers curled there slightly, enveloping the curve. Her fingers pressed down over his, forcing him to squeeze. He could feel the plush fabric of her bra beneath his fingertips and he looked to her for approval, her mouth dropping in a silent whimper as he kneaded her.

She shoved his hand away and for a moment he thought she'd changed her mind, but she sat up, pulling her tank top over her head and tossing it to the side, her stomach and back bare to him, the lilac lace of her bra visible and lovely to his eyes. She laid back down, taking his hand once more and moving his fingers to gently play with her bra strap. She released his hand and allowed it to roam, his fingers skating over the curve of her shoulder, then tugging at her bra strap once more, pulling it down and watching as one of her pointed nipples made an appearance. It was small, a dusty rose color, ripe for plucking. He paused his movement, swallowing back his own desires, wanting her to show him the way.

She moved the shoulder of the breast forward so that it was closer to him, a silent demand.

Erik's eyes flicked to hers, finding her in waiting. He moved forward, cupping the form of her breast in his hand and taking its nipple into his mouth. He did as she asked, sucking gently, his tongue flicking over its peak. She elicited the most wonderful sound, sending shock waves of desire and encouragement throughout him. He continued, his thumb pressing further into her breast, stroking it lovingly. She allowed him to continue until he pulled away, a string of his saliva drooping as he did so. He moved back quickly, sucking her breast clean from the possibility of another string all while keeping her breast moist and warm. She looked to him, wondering why he stopped.

"Show me more," he begged, eyes full of enthusiasm for learning, hungry to find out more about the pleasures of a woman.

Christine stood, unbuttoning her pants, and pulled them down over her legs, tossing them to the side with her tank top. She pulled her bra overhead as well, taking some of what remained of him on her with it.

She sat back on the bed, thighs clenched together. She still couldn't believe what she was doing. All her little fantasies of him could come true. Although, she admitted to herself, she hadn't quite imagined it this way.

She looked to him waiting for command. "Come here," she called and watched as he joined her side, their bodies parallel.

She bent her legs up, pulling her moistened thighs apart, and reaching over to guide his hand with hers. His fingers found her panties soaked and warm. He tensed, knowing he was touching the most intimate part of a woman, only a thin piece of fabric standing between him being flesh on flesh with her. Her fingers curled, making his apply light pressure and move in circular motions until he got the hang of exactly what she liked and she let go, allowing him to pleasure her on his own. Her hips rolled with his motions, mouth watering at the intimacy of his touch.

Christine looked over to see that his eyes were focused on his hand connected with her body, his mouth slightly agape just as it had been when he was playing his violin. Then her eyes moved downward, a crease in his pants indicating that he too was suffering. But her suffering was being released with every stroke of his hand. No release was there for him. In all of her fantasies she had not thought about him, she realized. His needs were always second to hers. Her hand slowly found its way to his pants, palming the length of him. Erik stiffened, his motion stopping as his eyes flashed to hers.

"I can… help you," she said, her cheeks a strawberry red.

"Christine, you don't…" He watched the light die in her eyes for a moment, a feeling of rejection rushing through her. "If you don't want to…"

"I do," she said urgently. "I want to touch you as you touch me."

Erik felt something tighten within him, a burning need for her. He sat up, unbuttoning his pants and pulling them down, kicking his shoes off with them. Christine's hand dipped beneath his briefs, pulling him out from his encasement. He gasped as her hand pulled the silk of his skin up, a small pearl of fluid seeping from his tip. He set his hand over hers, demonstrating just the right amount of pressure before returning his hand to her sex, slipping it beneath the fabric of her panties. She gasped at the coolness of his touch warming with the touch of her hot flesh.

They worked together, no longer needing to watch their motions, their hands already familiar with the path they needed to take in order to give pleasure to one another. Their eyes bore deep into each other's, mouths agape as they breathed their pleasure, filtering their moans out into silent cries.

Christine bucked against Erik's hand, feeling close to the edge. "Faster," she begged. Erik shoved her hand away from his member, positioning his body so that he could touch her more easily, taking the nipple that had not been pleasured earlier into his mouth. She cried softly, her hands digging into the sheets beneath her, toes curling as she rocked with his hand, losing herself and collapsing inwards. He stopped his motions as she came down, freeing himself and letting loose her breast with a small plop, his tongue darting out quickly to clean some of his mess. He laid beside her, watching her fall back down to earth, her breaths softening as she closed her eyes and a small smile curled her lips.

Erik waited a short while before rolling off the bed and collecting his clothes. She had not finished him, but seeing her little explosion before his eyes was enough to satisfy his needs for the day. Christine had drifted off for a short while, waking to the sound of his instrument's wood gently clashing with hers as he tried to quietly pick his violin up and leave without disturbing her.

To his disfavor, she sat up, alarmed that he was leaving her without so much as a word. "Shh," he whispered before she could even speak. "I'll see you next Thursday, alright?"

"You didn't finish," she spoke in realization, noting his softening member still somewhat solid in his pants.

"Next time." He moved towards the door. "Work on that etude, alright? I want to hear it." He left with a small smile, shutting her door behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews on the last chapter! I'm glad this story was so well-received. I guess it'll be one of those things I come back to when I'm in the mood for writing smut. I can't promise updates will be consistent like this as this is a story that I hadn't entirely intended on continuing, but I'm sure I'll continue writing it._

* * *

He had thought to himself. Thought and thought and thought about what had happened between him and Christine. How he had… touched her. Him! Erik! A man who had only been abhorred by others. His hands, the hands of a corpse were wanted. Not to play or compose music, but to touch and to caress another being.

He wondered why. Why did she want him, Erik, of all men alive and dead? _Why him?_ He could not understand. Did she not even happen to consider what was beneath his mask? Beneath his skin? Did she not even stop to ask herself if he was worthy of touching her? Being touched himself? Loving? Being loved?

Oh, he had almost forgotten she had touched him! How could he? No woman ever had before and yet he had forgotten, hypnotized by the diverting beauty of the female orgasm. The smallest bit he could remember of her hand on him felt good, but it had felt even better knowing he was doing the same for her. What was the male orgasm like? To be assisted by that of a woman?

He dreamt of her. Dreamt of her soft flesh, her tousled curls, her flushed cheeks, her rocking hips, his name a plea on her lips. More, more, more.

Erik woke, his breathing heavy and forehead slick with perspiration. He blinked and took in his surroundings, swallowing hard. Papers were strewn about, his desk covered in half-finished music and rejects of his own creative personal endeavors. He'd been working on a duet. Nothing sounded right. Nothing was perfect. But he had not had true inspiration. Now, however, he did.

Erik ignored the aching bulge in his pants and stood, lifting his sheets before he swung his legs over the side of the bed. He shuffled in the dark, a small bit of moonlight peeking through the curtains helping him find his way to the door. He stumbled to the grand piano in the very center of his living room, turning on the small lamp light next to his music shelf. On the shelf were several other songs in the works. With a sigh, he slid the music into a disorganized pile and set it to the side to pull fresh sheets to the front.

The melody started off simple and sweet. He paused occasionally to jot down a few notes, erase, and fix certain areas. When he had first started writing music, it was easy. The notes flowed through him naturally, he wrote music as if his life depended on it; as if it were the very oxygen he breathed. But recently it hadn't been the same. He struggled with every composition. His mind ran dry of inspiration. Even locking himself away in his bedroom, forcing himself to listen to hours of his favorite composers and their greatest works was not enough. He wasn't producing music as he had been. Now, with the memory of her curls tickling his chin and her soft, heated flesh slickening with every loving motion, he had nothing but inspiration and music; what he'd longed for.

He hadn't realized how late it was, up at the ungodliest hours of the night working and tweaking his song. He'd finished the duet and decided it needed more, something beneath it all to help carry the melodies. As he began the first bar of the accompaniment, the sun was rising outside and his eyelids grew heavy. He neared the end of the music when he lost himself entirely. He allowed his arms to gently rest on the keys, nothing he would've done had he been aware, and fell asleep.

* * *

Christine had been practicing her etude all week. Over and over, again and again. Scales first, arpeggios, bowing exercises, etude. Hours and hours dedicated the little piece. Her tuner was lighting up more often. It had become her favorite color, that bright glow of green when she'd nail the note. She would smile with joy, singing the note quietly to the tuner so that she'd remember how it sounded and felt within her. Maybe he'd reward her for being so diligent in her studies. Maybe he'd notice.

She had cleaned her room, partially embarrassed by its state the last time he'd visited. He probably thought of her as a child when he saw the mess of bedsheets she'd silently refused to make up in the mornings. Yet still, he touched her and loved her and whispered her name to her in that golden voice of his. And she wanted more. So much more.

She told herself she was being ridiculous obsessing over him every second, but she couldn't help herself. He was so… captivating. Everything about him reeked of mystery and she wanted to know more. She wanted to know where he was from, how he'd become a violin teacher, how long he'd been playing, why he wore a mask. She wanted to know if he'd ever been in love before, if he liked her, if he had been thinking of her as she was thinking of him. She wanted to know if he thought of her at night and if he too had to touch himself because of it.

She wouldn't be able to ask most of her questions, she thought. Yet somehow she had been capable of asking him to touch her. And he had. He had touched her and held her and finished her without even finishing himself. He had to care for her. He had to.

It had finally come—the afternoon he had lessons with her. She sat in the drawing room waiting for him patiently, her father's violin and bow in hand. Every few minutes she checked to see if it was tuned. She checked her phone to find he was fifteen minutes behind. He'd never been late before, she thought.

Christine plucked her etude quietly to pass the time, not caring so much if her notes were in tune or not. The grandfather clock in the room struck the half hour. Thirty minutes behind. Thirty minutes!

The door opened suddenly and Christine stood from the chair he'd occupy with his violin case. She smiled, awaiting his and Mamma Valerius' presence. Her smile faded as she realized it was only Mamma.

"Christine, are you sure he did not cancel for today?"

"I'm sure of it, Mamma. Last week asked me to practice so it'd be ready _for_ today."

Christine lost hope as it stuck the hour her lessons would be over. Mamma had left her to sit in the drawing room alone. She set her father's violin and bow back in their case and crawled into the chair, legs bundled up comfortably as she waited. At the sound of the final chime for the hour, she shut her eyes and softly began to cry. He wasn't coming back, she thought. She shouldn't have asked him to touch her. Now he was afraid to come back.

Her tears seized after a while and she began to drift off. She was startled at the sound of her phone's chime, loud and obnoxious compared to the blackness she was being lulled into. She blinked once at the lit screen sitting on the edge of the end table, Erik's name inscribed at the top. She sat up, reaching over the edge of her chair.

"Hello?" she answered, her voice blanketed by a sheet that had built during her tears.

"Christine! I'm so terribly sorry. I had overslept. I stayed up all night working and didn't even realize what time it was."

Christine shifted in her chair, feeling the same girly thrill within her as she did during a long-awaited kissing scene in one of her romantic comedies. "It's fine. I'm glad you called."

"It's not fine. You're paying me for my time and I can't even deliver myself consistently."

"It's fine," she assured.

"I promise I'll make it up to you, Christine."

Her spine tingled at his words. _He'll make it up._

* * *

Christine hadn't been lying in bed long when she heard a quick rap at her bedroom window as if a bird with a blunt beak was pecking away at the glass. She hesitated for a moment, turning fearfully towards the source of the sound. Another series of knocks, lighter and less certain.

She threw the blankets from her suddenly, tossing her legs over the edge of her bed. She wasn't sure whether to run out of the room and call for Mamma or to investigate herself.

 _I'm an adult,_ she told herself. _I must not be afraid._

After a short while of silence, she walked towards her window, lifting the blinds with a quick pull of a string. Erik kneeled on the roof, turned as if he were just about to leave. She unlocked her window hurriedly, lifting the bottom pane. Erik turned at the sound of the frame sliding. Neither of them spoke for a moment, the chill spring wind filling the silence.

"Aren't you going to come in?" Christine asked, moving to the side to allow him space to crawl through.

Erik silently ducked, lifting his legs through the window one at a time, pulling his backpack after him.

Christine shut the window behind him, smiling for a brief moment before turning back to him. "How'd you even get up on the roof?"

Erik laughed, lifting his scratched forearm for her to see. "Your trees are not forgiving to trespassers."

"Oh gosh, Erik!" she cried in a whisper. "I'll be right back with something to help you clean up. Wait here."

Erik set his backpack on the edge of her bed and unzipped it, pulling his laptop from inside as she left the room to retrieve a first aid kit. When she came back, his computer was halfway through an update.

Christine turned on her lamp light and joined him on the edge of her bed, opening the small plastic first aid container. She pulled out a disinfectant wipe and held out her hand for his arm. He gave it over willingly, watching her hold it in her lap. She swiped the fresh, drying blood away and placed the wipe to the side, pulling ointment from the container. She set his arm down and uncapped the tube, squeezing the ointment onto his arm before rubbing it gently into his skin.

"Your touch is... enthralling," he whispered.

Christine smiled. "I'm glad you think that." She finished him up, covering his arm in bandages. "Next time just text me when you're coming. I know how to turn off the front door alarm, so I could just let you in."

"I quite like having to go over and above for you."

"Literally?" she laughed.

He followed her with a small chuckle. "You could say that."

With a sigh, she closed the first aid kit and stood to set it on her dresser. "So what brings you here tonight?"

"Well I told you I'd make things up to you, and I've got something I wanted to show you," he said, shuffling with his laptop.

Christine laid herself on the bed, patting the empty space beside her for him to join. He did as she requested, laying beside her.

"I missed you today," Christine spoke to make up for the impending silence as he waited for his computer to finish updating.

"Mhmm?" His throat rumbled.

Christine turned herself so that her body faced him, admiring the little details of his face that were left open for viewing by his mask. Finally, his computer turned on, opening to the login screen. He had no personal background, only the default. With a small PIN code, he was in.

He pulled up a program, a music program she realized as it opened. Erik sat up and reached down over the bedside to his backpack in the floor, lifting it to unzip the very front pocket. He pulled out a tangled mess of decade-old earbuds and laid back, his fingers plucking away at wires and pulling them free of their entanglement. Again, she watched his hands with such fascination. Every pull and pluck was precise, certain. Like he had been studying the exact methods of untangling a set of earbuds for years and mastered each and every one of them.

He plugged the earbuds into the computer once they were undone and handed off each earbud to her. "Don't want to listen with me?" She asked.

"I've listened a thousand times. Besides, if you were to miss out on one bud, you'd miss out on the full experience."

She set the earbuds in and he clicked play. Each earbud had its own violin, a piano accompaniment in-between. She closed her eyes, focusing her mind on the tranquil pond that appeared before her, swan gliding across the waters as lovers sat nearby on a blanket feeding one another cheese and bread, kissing occasionally. The song grew more passionate, more fiery. More, dare she say it, sexual. She opened her eyes, glancing across the top left corner. _Christine,_ the title read.

Her eyes flashed over to Erik, finding him staring right at her. His chest rose and fell slowly as if he were controlling his breathing pace. She watched his eyes flick to her lips and she felt her brows quiver with anticipation as she parted her lips and leaned forward slightly, wanting him to meet her halfway as the song neared its end. He met her slowly, parting her lips some more with his own shy kisses.

It was then that she realized they hadn't kissed. They had held hands, touched one another, cried one another's names; but not kissed. Oh what they'd been missing out on, this heated and passionate dance was transformed entirely by the music and lasted even after it had ended.

Erik sat up, not breaking their kiss, and gently pulled the earbuds from her, closing his laptop and placing it to the side. His lips walked down her chin and neck as he positioned himself over top of her, lifting her oversized t-shirt to kiss her stomach until he reached the waistband of her pajama pants.

He lifted his eyes to hers, catching their sparkle in the combination of moon and lamplight. "I've been doing some research," he said, "I've learned more about how I can please you. If you'd allow me..."

Christine sat up and leaned forward, pressing her lips to his masked forehead. "Hold here."

He watched her leave the bed and cross the room to her door, turning the lock. It both scared and excited him that they could have been caught. Even if it was yet to go as far as they were heading, it would've been scandalous, perhaps embarrassing, to be caught loving a girl. Maybe not for him, but possibly for her. A man like him! The man who was only meant to be there in the afternoon to help her learn the violin, who had missed their lesson and was now in her bedroom loving her when she should be sleeping.

Christine joined Erik back in the bed, laying herself down before him with rosy cheeks and shy eyes. He lifted her shirt once more, his cool hands gliding up the curve of her waist while the fabric bunched up. He kissed the notch between both ends of her rib cage where her lungs rose and fell and he breathed into her skin, his breath tickling the sparse hair of her stomach.

"So soft," he whispered before sitting up to move back over her waistband. His eyes flashed to hers once more. "You want this, right? Not just because I want it, but because you do?"

Christine nodded her head. "Yes, Erik," she breathed. "Please."

He gently tugged at her waistband, pulling her pants down over her legs. She helped by lifting her feet out and he discarded them, tossing them to the floor.

Erik admired her for a moment. A woman. An actual woman lying before him willingly. He parted her legs, cupping his hands beneath her thighs before leaning down to plant a kiss inside her thighs, a wet chirp of his lips as he plucked away.

"Erik," she groaned after several dozen kisses. He looked up to her, smiling mischievously. "Please," she cried, parting her thighs further.

Her begging sent a shiver down his spine. It was exactly what he wanted. Better yet, _needed_ for her to do. He sat up, pulling her panties down from her hips. She followed suit, lifting her legs in the air for him to pull them up and over her feet.

When he discarded them, he looked down at her, silently praising her courage for allowing him into her bedroom as well as allowing him to touch her and love her the way no one else would. And the way she looked at him? He wondered if maybe it were all a dream or maybe if by some miracle he'd woken with someone else's face and hadn't realized it.

"Want me to take off my shirt as well?" Christine asked, wondering why he'd paused.

Erik dipped down, sweeping his lips over hers briefly. "I will," he said, hands finding the bundled hem of her shirt and lifting it up and over her head. He admired the soft mountains of her breasts with rounded, dusty pink snow at the tips. He pressed his lips to each of them lovingly and settled himself back down between her legs, laying below her.

She met his eyes once more as he kissed the soft mat of curls above her sex before he began kissing her nub. She cried for a moment, toes curling at the unfamiliar sensation of someone's mouth there. Then it was his tongue that stunned her, lavishing the heated, plump folds of her mound. She grabbed for his hands curved around her thighs and squeezed encouragingly. He watched her writhe beneath him, noting every little flick of his tongue that made her lips twitch for mercy. She was utterly his.

He dipped his tongue into her at the source of her wetness and she cried out, pulling a hand to her mouth to muffle the sound. He tasted her, appreciated every corner his tongue could reach, worshipping her the way she deserved to be.

"Erik," she cried, wanting him to stop. He mistook her crying for wanting more and dipped further. "Erik!" she cried once more, tugging his hair up and closing her thighs.

He met her with worried eyes, swallowing her taste before he spoke. "Did I do something wrong?"

She smiled, shaking her head. "You were doing everything right it's just..." she bit her lip, "Do you have a condom?"

He froze for a second, registering her question. "A-a condom?" She nodded. "I hadn't considered it. I mean," he corrected himself, "I had, but I thought you might not..." his voice trailed off as he realized the selfishness of his self-doubt.

"It's okay," Christine assured him. "Next time you should bring one. I'd like to..." she blushed, "I'd like to feel you."

Erik closed his eyes briefly, a warmth stirring within him at the image her words had placed in his head. "How can you be real?"

Christine sat up, pulling his face closer between each of her hands. She smiled when his eyes opened. His mask was warm now from having been tucked beneath her. It had been a bit abrasive against her skin, but still, she had half the mind left to refrain from asking him to take it off. If he did not do it on his own, she would not ask.

"May I touch you now?" she asked quietly.

He nodded his silent answer and stood, unbuckling his pants. She pulled his briefs down and he fell out, aching worse than the week before. She tugged on his flesh, flicking her eyes up to his to watch him as he reacted to her touch. She wondered if his cheeks were flushed as much beneath the mask as hers were a few moments before. She pulled him into her mouth, circling her tongue around his tip. Erik's resulting groan softened as she drew him in deeper, working his length with her hand.

"Christine," he cried for mercy. She drew him out with a plop, still stroking his length slowly. His breath was uncontrollably fast. "Let's come together this time," he said. "I'll touch you and you touch me. Tell me when you're coming so I can give in as well."

She smiled and sat up, tilting her head for a kiss. He bent down and placed his lips upon hers, tasting himself as his tongue graced her lower lip. Erik gently pushed her back against the bed, pulling his feet from his shoes then his pants and briefs. Christine sat up as he joined her back in the bed and reached for the lower button of his shirt. He stopped her, pulling her hand up and planting a soft kiss on her open palm.

"I guess I owe you it," he whispered into her skin.

He let her go and allowed her to continue her work, tugging his shirt off to reveal sinewy muscle. It was almost the same as his hands, she thought: skin wrapped tightly around his form. She smiled and laid back against her pillows. Erik sat beside her, slipping his hand over her mound, rubbing tantalizing circles around her clit. She took his cock into her hand, stroking it lovingly in the same rhythm he was stroking her, mimicking what it might have felt like had he been inside. Then he dipped his finger between her folds and into her, the obvious wetness of her filling the room with sounds that pleased his ears.

"Faster," she begged, and Erik complied. She stroked him faster as well, pulling down with every dip of his finger and up with every escape. "More," she begged. "Another finger, please."

He did just so, slipping his ring in with his middle, filling her with foreign pressure that she found so utterly pleasurable. She loved the way his touch made her sparkle and feel as if she was going to collapse entirely.

"Faster, harder, please," she begged in one complete breath.

"Come for me," Erik cried, his hand tiring from its abnormal position and consistent fast motions. He wasn't sure if he was going to last much longer himself. "Come, Christine."

"I'm... I'm going-" she tried speaking the words before she cried, shaking around his hand. He followed her with a distorted grunt, his own pleasure spilling into her hand.

Erik felt her muscle thrum against his fingers and slowly removed himself from her, his mind still clouded by the high of orgasm. Christine rolled over, her tongue darting out to remove his mess from her hand and the rest of his tip. He drew in a shaking breath realizing what she was doing, and brought his fingers to his mouth, tasting her as she did him.

She watched him with shimmering eyes as he pulled his fingers from his closed lips, and sat up to kiss him. They sat there for a short moment, foreheads pressed against one another, lungs sharing the same air as their breaths slowed. Erik kissed her once more and moved off the bed to collect his things.

"Please don't go," Christine begged.

Erik looked to her, seeing the deep need in the black pools of her eyes. "But I must," he argued.

"You can stay a little while longer, can't you? Until I fall asleep?"

His heart stammered at the beauty of the moment, her begging him to stay. No one had ever begged of him an extended stay. And she was so wonderful and lovely. He'd spend the whole night if he could. "If it is what you wish," he grinned, setting the pants he'd picked off the floor onto the edge of the bed.

Christine crawled under the covers with a smile as he joined her, pulling the covers over himself. She crept over to him, resting her cheek upon his chest and closing her eyes as he began stroking her hair.

"Do you know any Swedish lullabies?" Christine asked, carefully running her hand over his abdomen.

"I know several languages, but Swedish is not one of them," Erik answered. "But if you'd like to hear any lullabies in French or Iranian, I have plenty in stock."

"I could teach you a few if you'd like."

Erik did not reply for a moment. "Would it make you happy?"

Christine shrugged slightly. "Maybe if you could play them for me one day."

"Then sing one for me."

Christine drew in a breath before she let out, singing one of her favorite lullabies from her childhood:

 _Den dära stugan vid ån är Hagen,_

 _där gamle Anders i Hagen bor_

Erik listened to her, closing his eyes and focusing on her voice. He didn't know what he was asking when he'd asked her to sing. He didn't know she had such a voice. He probably shouldn't have asked it, he realized. Now he was sure he was not going to be able to sleep until he finished another song.

"Why do all lullabies sound so melancholic?" Erik asked after her voice died.

Christine shrugged, nuzzling her face into him. "I'm not quite sure."

He began humming the melody of the song, his fingers running through her curls as she drifted off. He waited a while before slipping out from underneath her, dressing quietly. He turned off her lamp and slipped his laptop back into his backpack.

"Not going to kiss me goodnight?" Christine drawled as he lifted her window.

Erik turned with a small grin. "I was hoping not to disturb your sleep." He walked towards her bedside, leaning over to plant a kiss onto her forehead. As he lifted away, she caught his chin briefly with her own lips.

"I'll see you next week?" she asked through a flutter of tired lashes.

"If I can hold myself back from wishing to see you." Christine smiled as he walked back towards the window. "Sleep well, Christine."

With a close of her window, she plopped her head back down on her pillow, settling back easily into sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

"I love you."

Those three words. Those three horrifying and beautiful words. He wasn't sure he had heard them. Maybe his mind made it up in place of the silence that had filled between them as they laid bundled up under the sheets of her bed, watching a movie from her laptop. But as he looked to her, he knew they were real. Even if she had not said them, her eyes said them, and it tugged his heart right along.

He could not stay away from her. Friday had been dedicated to composing, working on a piece for her voice. He was hoping to present it to her at their next lesson, but the longer he waited, the more antsy he became. His mind played over and over just what she might sound like singing it and it had made his stomach flip in need for her touch, her voice, her love.

He broke the embrace of their hands, pressing his palm to her cheek. She leaned into it, closing her eyes in a manner that sent a sudden surge of warmth through his chest.

"My god," he whispered, "How can you be so perfect?"

Christine's eyes opened with a flutter of lashes, a meek smile splaying itself across her lips. "Did you bring what I had asked you to?"

His heart stopped. He had forgotten. Oh, how could he have forgotten? He couldn't believe himself. The only woman to have ever asked him for his body, and he forgot!

Erik removed his hand with a small twitch of reluctant fingers. "I'm sorry, Christine. If I had remembered-"

"Let's go out and get some then!" she laughed, sitting up.

"I… are you sure you want to sneak out?" Erik was already afraid to sneak back through the hallways just to leave. He even thought of using her window again, but she had insisted upon the front door and he wasn't going to reject such a simple request.

Christine stood stretching and laughed. "I'm an adult, Erik. I'll be fine."

"But if-"

"Mamma is a heavy sleeper. Besides, she's never come in to check on me at night. I know because I'm practically always awake."

Erik eyed Christine anxiously but settled at the reassurance of her smile.

"Come on!" she said. "Help me pick out what to wear."

Christine rummaged through her closet, pulling several different dresses for Erik's opinion. He settled upon one of daisy print that ended just above her knees; something youthful, lovely, easy for him to take off when he got around to it.

She dug in her drawers in search of a nice underwear ensemble to change into as well. He knew she'd found something special when she turned to smile at him mischievously.

She closed the dresser without revealing to him what she'd discovered and turned, hiding whatever she'd pulled out behind her back. "I'm going to change in the bathroom real quick. You can wait here," she spoke commandingly.

When she finally returned, she entered giving a little twirl as she walked through the doorway. Erik smiled in amusement and stood, ready for her hand.

Christine pulled him along down the hall and out the front door. Erik had parked far down the street to diminish the possibility of giving himself away. He had started to hate having to hide. He hid the things he loved all his life, but now what he loved was real. A _real_ human being, blood and flesh and bone and _beauty_. He wanted to lift her in the air and shout, proclaim his love for all the world to hear.

But he was her violin teacher; a man meant to only be there Thursday afternoons, a man being paid to teach her everything he knew of the violin and music. Yet here she was—long, golden hair, sparkling eyes and a bounce in her step—ready to give _him_ lessons he never thought he'd be able to afford; loving him without pushing him too far from his comfort zone.

He told himself constantly that it must be a dream, but every second longer he spent by her he knew it was real. _They_ were real.

"Want anything while I'm in here?" Erik asked, parking his vehicle in front of the convenience store.

"I'm fine," Christine answered with a small shrug.

Erik hesitated, questioning himself for a moment before leaning over the center console and pressing his lips to hers. She pressed back in an instant, drinking him whole, adding kindling to the fire that had only been a small manifestation of its most heady form. Erik pulled away as soon as he felt something within him tighten and beg for more.

"I'll be back."

She watched him cross the lot and enter the store, occupying her mind with different fantasies of how the events of the night would further play out. They weren't going back to her place, she decided. She grew tired of having to keep quiet all the time, muffle her small cries with the palm of her hand or bite her tongue to elicit some sort of pain to refrain from yelling out her pleasure. They needed to be somewhere that they were free to pant and cry. Somewhere safe.

He came back with a single bag, the _Trojan_ logo showing through the semi-translucent plastic. Christine smiled as he entered the car tossing the box to the back.

"Seventeen dollars for a pack of ten," he griped, inserting his key into the ignition.

Christine giggled as the car came roaring back to life. "Now to your place, right?"

Erik turned to her before he could shift his car into drive. The long look in his eyes made her think she'd said something wrong, and she sank slowly back into her seat.

"You'll have to excuse the mess," he warned, turning his gaze back. "I've been busy and haven't yet made the time to clean up."

Christine laughed half in relief and half in an attempt to calm any of his nerves. "But you've made time for me?" she teased, raising a brow in his direction.

"Always."

Christine blushed and sat back in her seat, turning to watch the buildings pass by, fantasizing just what his home may look like

It was his fingertips that she felt first, cool and callused. They slid down, cupping her left knee and placing his palm flat on her thigh. She turned to him and found his eyes glued to the road. His mind, however, was not.

Christine turned her attention then to his hand possessively holding her knee, wanting to touch and feel that she was there. Slowly, she pulled up the edge of her skirt up with one hand and brought his hand up her thigh with the other. She rotated his hand so that his fingers curled on the inside of her thigh, his pinky close enough to feel the warmth radiating off her body.

She turned to him once more, spotting the small bob of his Adam's apple. Lifting her skirt a little higher, she placed his hand on her mound, pushing his fingers ever so gently to encourage him.

At the twitch of his fingertip, she lifted away, bucking her hips forward into the sweet little swirl of his middle finger at the edge of her sex. She cried as he slipped his hand under the band of her underwear, his fingers gliding down and spreading themselves over her folds. She lied back, tensing every muscle and curling every toe as he introduced one delicious digit to her core, slipping in and out more easily with every pull and push.

She didn't have the time to look at the front of his house, having kept her lovely eyes shut off from the world as she focused on the beautiful wave of pleasure that overcame her with the magic of his touch. Even as he shut off the car and pulled himself from her, she kept her eyes closed and clenched her thighs to feel the slick that had built between them.

She tried exiting the car on wobbly legs, using the passenger side door as an anchor. Lithe arms flew up beneath her, lifting her against the solid figure she was very much looking forward to feeling bent over against her back in a few moments. He shut her door and locked his car, carrying her off into his home, walking quickly past the piano overloaded by music and into his room where he set her upon the bed.

Her dress was off in a snap, her nearly-bare form exposed for his viewing. His eyes burned as they gazed at her, finally understanding the mischievous smile she had planted across her face when she chose her little ensemble for the night: a matching white mesh bralette and panties adorned with embroidered stars that left little to the imagination. She was adorable.

In an instant, he successfully removed her bralette and tossed it to the side, his mouth desperate to taste and worship her breasts. She curled into him as he claimed her left nipple between tooth and tongue, teasing her gently. Her fingers bunched in his hair and her hips rolled forward as she begged for more touch, her leg meeting the aching pressure of his manhood.

"Please," Christine begged, her hand finding his in a frantic search. She pulled it back down to where it had been previously, slipping his fingers beneath the waistband of her panties.

He released her nipple with a plop, chuckling darkly at the bunching of her brows as he again curled his fingers over her.

"Tell me what you want," he demanded, his heated breath tickling her neck as he moved to get closer to her lovely eyes.

"I want…" her words trailed off as the pad of his forefinger brushed across her sweet little pearl. She drew in her bottom lip, biting down to withhold a cry.

Erik cocked his head, his mouth merely a hair away from hers. "Tell me, Christine."

Her stomach danced at the sound of her name upon his lips, and her eyes fluttered open. "I want you."

He growled, removing his hand from her sex and pulling back to bunch the sides of her panties and slip them down over her legs. She lifted them in assistance, dropping and parting them for him once more. He stared at her a moment, swallowing before he lowered himself once more. He slipped his arms through her legs and watched her lust-drunken eyes as his mouth met with her warmed center. He held the top of her thighs still as he danced his tongue over her nub, teasing the little bundle of nerves there as she writhed before him, moaning out the most delicious melody he'd ever heard. Before she could reach her peak, he was off of her once more, standing back on the ground.

She watched him start away at his clothes, practically tearing off his jacket and throwing it to the floor. He was halfway done with his shirt by the time she gathered the courage to help him, sitting up to unbutton and unzip his now-too-tight trousers. Before she could even pull down his briefs, his hands swatted at hers and he backed away to retrieve the bag he'd thrown on the floor. Christine removed her shoes and tossed them off with a _thunk_ , settling back onto the pile of pillows by the headboard.

Erik removed the rest of his clothes as well, rolling the condom down his length before joining her back on the bed. He gazed down at her acceptingly parting her legs once more, and moved between her, leaning down to pull her up and into his lap. He held her tight, splaying his hands across the small of her back. It took a moment, but eventually her arms wrapped around him as well, pulling him closer. She rested her head against his shoulder and planted a small kiss into the skin there.

"Did you say you loved me earlier?" Erik asked, needing to know if what he heard was true.

He felt her grin. "I did and I do."

His grip grew tighter and he sighed heavily into her hair. When he finally pulled back, it was to see her face. He pushed a lock of hair to the side and gently kissed the cheek it had covered.

"It's going to be hard for me to believe," he whispered towards her ear. "But I'm willing to try."

Christine's thigh moved to expose the thing that was probing her, still rock solid from all her squealing and squirming.

"Let me show you," she begged, watching his eyes widen and his breath catch with lust as her hand met his aching member, lifting it into her palm. "Please."

He laid himself back against the mattress, allowing her to crawl over top of him and plant one hand against his chest to steady herself as her other worked to settle his tip between her folds. With a fall of her hips and a shared grunt, he was in.

Watching her rock against him was dizzying. Up and down, she found her rhythm and stuck to it, planting her other hand on his chest and drawing in her lower lip, not even aware of her accelerating heart rate.

He moved his hands up the length of her thighs, then her hips, pausing at her breasts where he flicked the pad of his thumbs across the peaks of her tightened nipples, causing her to elicit a pleasurable sound.

In one swift motion, he sat up, pushing her down against the pillows and burying himself back into her. She moaned delightfully, encouraging his deep, languid thrusts. Her hands searched for his, finding them perched at her sides. She grabbed his wrists, tugging on them slightly.

"I need you to touch me," she begged. "Please."

He allowed her to guide his hands, placing hers on the back of his and skating his open palms down from her shoulders, over her breasts, her abdomen, to her thighs and back. His thrusts grew harder, faster, and she was no longer able to guide his hands, too overwhelmed by the sweet pleasure coursing through her.

Erik paused to remove himself and before she could open her eyes and question what he was doing, his hands were guiding her to flip over. He settled back into her easily, resuming his quick pace. Christine's hands rummaged through the pile of pillows to find solid mattress beneath, and she fisted her hands into the sheets, chanting " _Yes, yes, yes_ ," repeatedly into the pillow in front of her.

He remembered how she needed his touch and so he leaned over her, wrapping his arms around her and pressing his chest to her back, thrusting wildly in and out, faster and faster. His panting grew louder with the pounding of his heart and her cries built in a crescendo until she lost it all and shrieked, exploding beneath him. He felt himself tighten, and plunged deep into her one last time, grunting at his release. He waited for the throbbing to cease before he slipped out of her and fell to her side.

He chuckled, running his hands across the face of his mask. Christine laughed as well, turning so that she faced him. He felt his heart lift with every final note of her sweet voice laughing in tandem with his.

He turned to her and sighed deeply, gazing at her through heavy eyelids. "I'll be right back," he said, turning himself over and standing.

She closed her eyes for a moment, smiling at the fact that they'd just shared something truly special and it had felt amazing. She wanted to do it again, request another round from him when he came back, but she already was so exhausted and knew it was probably already late into the night and she needed to rest.

When he came back, he'd changed into a pair of navy sweatpants and brought a cool towel for her to wipe herself down. She took it gratefully, wiping between her thighs then folding it to place on his nightstand.

Erik groaned as he slipped beneath the covers behind her, tugging them down from beneath her so that he could cover her up.

She scoffed in offense. "You think I'm going to sleep when you're the only one clothed?"

He watched her leave the bed and walk a short distance before leaning over to pull his now-wrinkled dress shirt from the floor. She turned, pulling it on over her shoulders, and joined him back in the bed.

"There," she said settling down, "We're even now."

Erik chuckled and pulled her closer by the hip, tossing the coverlet over her shoulder. She nuzzled her cheek into his chest and wrapped her arm around his waist. She felt his lips press against the crown of her head for a brief moment. He sighed into her curls, dragging his hand up her back. They said nothing more, letting their slowing hearts speak for them as they drifted out into sleep, both of them completely exhausted from the events of the night.


	4. Chapter 4

Christine woke at the shift of the mattress. For a moment she wasn't entirely sure where she was, but at the grumble of the voice behind her, she relaxed.

His body tumbled once more, shifting back again, pausing, and shifting once more. She sighed in annoyance by his little fit, and when he began to move once more, she flipped herself over, reaching an arm over him in hopes of pinning him down.

His eyes shot open in an instant, the pearl white surrounding his irises appearing to shine through the darkness. She thought for a moment she saw panic, but just as soon as they had opened, they relaxed, and his lips curled upwards. She felt the gentle brush of the back of his fingernails without having heard his hand move at all. The way they tickled her cheek sent her spine rippling with a shiver of delight.

He turned his head away from her to look towards his windows, a small sliver of moonlight peeking between the curtains. With a heavy sigh, his smile dimmed.

"I guess I should get you back home." His voice rumbled from having gone untouched in sleep.

Christine wanted to beg him to grant her a while longer, but she knew that if she were to fall back asleep it would probably be far into the morning before she'd wake up, and by then Mamma would know.

She forced herself out of the bed and began her fumble in the darkness, finding her dress and underwear scattered about on the floor amongst his clothes. She was dressed before he'd gathered himself enough to sit up, and so she headed out to find a bathroom before they left, hoping to clean herself up a bit so she wouldn't look like a complete wreck. Instead, she got distracted by his piano.

Papers were strewn all about. Music sheets, she realized. She approached quietly as if she would startle it if she did not. Even in the darkness, she could make out her name scrawled in red ink. It was struck through in an almost violent manner and above was replaced with the words _Mea Stella_.

"I would play it for you, but it's not quite finished."

Christine jumped back from the bench, pivoting towards Erik with wide eyes. He laughed at her startled reaction, his lips curling into a weary smile.

"Come," he said, beckoning her towards his grand foyer. "Let's get you home before the sun rises."

She was suddenly thankful for Erik's restlessness, catching the clock on his dashboard as they rode back to her home. Nearly 3:30 in the morning. Another hour and a half or so and Mamma would've been awake preparing them breakfast before they cleaned themselves up for church.

The car came to a creeping halt as they approached her house, Erik making sure to stay two doors down. Christine hesitated to reach towards the handle, staring at her home as if it no longer felt like home to her but instead something she dreaded. She wasn't sure why or how, but it wasn't home anymore. She did not feel happy there nor safe like she had with Erik, in his arms and bed. She hadn't realized it but somehow that piece she'd been missing—the chunk of her being that seemed to have disappeared with her father—was now fulfilled by one man. One man and music.

She turned to that man and saw in his eyes just what she was feeling in that moment. Don't go. But she had to, she knew she had to. Even though her mind had reminded her that it would only be a few days, maybe not even that long, she still did not want to leave the car and have to know what a life is without him in it.

"You should stay for dinner Thursday." The words came before she could even think to say them.

His face did not change, but she recognized a hesitation there in his eyes. "I'm not sure if that's a good idea, Christine," he replied finally after a few seconds—an eternity to her—of contemplation.

She wanted to cry. She was shaking, trembling, in that moment. "I'm tired of this," she blurted, tears fogging her vision. "I'm tired of all this sneaking around. I just want you to love me without all the worry. Mamma needs to know."

Erik shook his head, tears forming in his own eyes as well. "I'm afraid, Christine. I'm older than you and I don't want her to think-"

"I don't care what she thinks!" Even she surprised herself when she said the words. The one woman who actually cared for her when no one else did and she didn't care about her feelings. Christine hated herself for it, that she'd repay Mamma's kindness with such disregard.

Erik blinked at her a moment in surprise and took his time with his next argument. "We've only known each other for two months, Christine. That isn't even every day of seeing one another."

"I can't even see you every day because of this constraint we've bound ourselves to: teacher and student. I don't want that anymore, I just want us."

Erik's heart twisted as he saw all the pain swirled in those eyes of hers. He hated it. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt. He sighed shakily in defeat. "I'll think about it, Christine. Okay?"

That seemed like enough. To his relief she smiled, leaning forward and planting a small kiss upon the cheek of his mask before turning and exiting his car. He wanted to pull her back, beg her lips for more, touch her where she liked it best all to make it up to her for having just nearly broken her heart. But it was late and she was tired. He was tired too. And it was just better to let things go.

At least until Thursday.

XXX

He finished the song. Every note and every lyric. Polished it to perfection just in time for their lesson, praying the upright piano he'd spotted in their living room was in enough shape for playing. He tried to contain his excitement as Mamma greeted him at the door and showed him to the drawing room, but as he entered all that washed away at the sight of her. Dark circles beneath her eyes; washed-out jeans; and an extra large gray hoodie that hung down to the center of her thighs, adorned with several balls of lint. Even as she looked at him and managed a feeble smile, he knew she was something more than tired. Mamma left without a word, shutting the door quietly behind her.

The air between them grew heavy with every second of silence that passed between them. Erik opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, she was doubling over, trembling with muffled cries. He tossed his case and music to the floor, rushing to her side. He pulled her instrument and bow from her hands and set them back in their open case before lifting her into his arms and carrying her off to the nearby chair.

He rocked her for several minutes, eventually humming a small tune he'd made up to help calm her nerves. Once she seemed fine enough, he opened up the many questions that were running through his mind.

"What happened, Christine?"

The finger she'd been stroking along the edge of his lapel stopped and her stomach twisted with pain once more. "Nothing," she choked.

Erik rolled his eyes proceeded to run his hand along the side of her hair. "I can't say that I'd believe that statement even for a moment."

Christine felt her throat tighten and she bit her lip in hopes of resisting another cry session. "I was cleaning up today."

"And?" he asked after several seconds absent of elaboration.

"And I found a postcard my father had sent when he was touring a few years ago."

 _Baby steps_ , he thought at another moment of silence. "Where was it from?"

"Sweden," she replied. "My farfar's country."

Erik lifted his head and settled her's beneath his chin. "Farfar?"

"Grandfather."

"Ah," he smiled. "So you grandfather was an immigrant?"

"Yes."

"Let me guess, came with little money and a dream?"

She laughed for a moment, a small exhale of breath, and Erik mentally tallied himself one point against whatever it was Christine was struggling with. "Something along those lines." She shifted in his lap, nuzzling her cheek into the warmth of his chest. "But it's not really where the card was from—not necessarily. It was more about what he wrote."

"What did he write?"

Again Christine's throat tightened and she wasn't sure if she was going to be able to speak. "He told me to always remember who I am." She shook her head slightly and her vision blurred once again with tears. "And the more I think about it, the more I'm not sure who I am anymore." Her words had become a whisper and her throat closed itself off from speaking, only allowing her choked cries.

Erik closed his eyes, frowning against the pain that constricted with a knot in his chest. "Oh, Christine," he whispered, setting unmoving lips upon the crown of her head. He did not kiss her, only held her and felt her tremble against him for a moment until he decided to move her back to her room.

He laid there with her under the covers, smoothing her curls with one hand until the cries subsided. She fell limp against him, completely exhausted from all the tears. He closed his eyes now and focused in on her pattern of breathing, the rise and fall rise and fall of her chest against his side. Softness and liveness and real.

Her door popped open, the small click of the latch begging for his complete attention. He kept stroking at her curls and opened his eyes slowly to find Mamma's looking on at the scene before her. At any other moment he'd shared in that room with Christine, he might have felt fear—might've seen shock in the woman's eyes. Yet he did not. No shock or hate or any emotion demanding that he get out. Only pity. Pity that for once in his life was not directed towards him. Pity for Christine, the shattered, struggling girl in his arms.

Then she smiled. A real, whole, genuine smile. A smile that, if it spoke, would say "Thank you," in almost a whisper. With the gentlest of clicks, the door was once again shut and they were alone.

Erik had managed to slip out of Christine's room without disturbing her, not wanting to stay much longer than he was scheduled to be there out of respect for Mamma. As he made sure Christine's violin was tucked and locked safely into its case, Mamma entered the drawing room with worried, furrowed brows.

He stood as soon as he finished with the final latch of her case. "I think she's fine now, madam." The woman did not speak, her eyes dropping to the floor. "I'm sorry about all of this," he added speedily. "She just needed-"

"Erik?"

The sad little voice interrupted his explanation and its owner crossed the room, taking up his hand and leaning against his shoulder. Christine was still exhausted as he could tell, her lovely eyes shutting as her face turned in on his arm. He felt his heart in his chest. Fear, love, and grief all at once slamming against one another with every beat.

He looked back up to Mamma to find a smile. Her posture, which had already not been so well with age, appeared to slump once more in relaxation. Her Christine was fine, safe, and in love. She had to know now, he thought. Nothing he could say could convince her otherwise, not that he could say anything or even be capable of doing so. Not if it meant breaking Christine's heart—the one heart he wanted to be forever his.

The face on his arm shifted once more, turning out in the direction of Mamma. "Can he stay for dinner? At least until then?"

Erik's heart twirled at the sound of her sweet voice begging. He wanted to take that voice and toss it into a jar that he could keep up on his shelf so that he could look at it everyday, place it on his piano where he would write tiny melodies for its own pleasure, tuck it into bed beside him at night so that it could be there in case he happened to wake from a bad dream. He wanted it in every second of his day.

Mamma Valerius' smile widened and she almost laughed at Christine. "Of course, dear."

All the tension that had built in Erik's body washed away in those three simple words, and he squeezed Christine's hand triumphantly. Mamma turned, shooting him one final glance of something he read of gratitude, and left the room once more.

Christine did not allow herself a moment before she folded herself into Erik's arms, wrapping her own around him as she did so.

"I've got to tell her, Christine," Erik said, his eyes not moving from the door Mamma just left through.

Christine tilted her head up to his and planted a small kiss upon his chin. He glanced down at her, searching for a hint that maybe it wasn't such a good idea he confessed to Mamma. Finding nothing, he sighed and broke their embrace to collect his music folder.

"I hope you're in the mood for singing," he said, smiling as he opened his folder and glanced at the first page of his compositions. "Because I am so looking forward to-" he turned and stopped mid-sentence seeing the concern in her eyes and the fumbling of her fingers. "What is it, my dear?"

She dropped her gaze as she explained her reservations. "It's been so long since I've actually sung music." She spoke so nervously.

Erik stepped forward in her direction. "But Christine, you've sung for me in bed last Thursday and-" she cut him off before he could get to his compliment.

"That was just a short lullaby. It didn't feel like actual singing. It's been so long since I have… my father was usually the one to get me to sing and since his death I really haven't been able to." Her eyes still avoided his, but her hands had dropped.

He should've stopped and respect her wishes, he thought, but he couldn't allow himself to let something so wonderful go dormant. "I can guide you, Christine. What you have is a gift. It's like nothing else I've ever heard and I want you to love it as much as I've been losing my mind over it." She finally faced him, spotting the love and passion in his eyes. "As much as I've been losing my mind over you," he added. She watched his entire body clench, and he closed his eyes, turning.

"I don't think you even understand," he continued, pacing the floor. "I-I mean, I know how painful it must be." He turned back to her and approached, reaching out a reassuring hand. "I had a mental breakdown a few years ago after having a composition I'd been working on for a decade be rejected, and so I forced myself to stare at my face in the mirror. I lost my mind. It took forever to get back into music. I thought I would end up burning my piano and everything I've written. I almost did. But a friend worked me out of it and forced me to get back to writing and performing and I haven't stopped since."

He held her hands in his, his calloused palms brushing along the side of her hand as he moved to hold her fingers. She nearly shivered at the pure joy his touch brought to her own skin.

"You can do this, Christine. I promise it."

She was practically breathless. _This man_ , she thought. She could surely lose herself being with him.

Christine slipped from his grasp, curving around him and making her way to the door where she turned the lock. He watched her leave for the other door and locked it as well, staring at her in confusion. She pointed towards the chair he'd usually lay his case in. He did not budge, still slightly confused by her intentions, his mind still focused on the idea of her singing.

She crossed the room to him, outstretching a hand that she planted on his chest, and pushed him back towards the chair. He tossed his folder on the side table before he sat back and helped her into his lap.

"Did you-" He pulled a packaged condom from his front coat pocket before she could finish her question.

She smiled, reaching between them to fumble with the button of his pants. Before she could reach in and free his hardening member from its confinement, he showed her off, demanding she undress herself in front of him.

She was glad she had at least been able to convince herself to take a shower before their lesson, as much as she hadn't been in the mood to pull herself out of the bed that morning. At least her skin was soft and clean and smelling of the vanilla-scented body wash she liked so much.

He took the time to plant a kiss upon each of her breasts as she fixed herself back over his lap, straddling him. "You know you're still singing for me once we're finished, right?" He lifted his eyes to her questioningly.

She smiled mischievously. "You'll have to make me."

He emitted a deep growl and dipped his hand into his briefs, lifting the throbbing member before rolling the condom over top. She didn't give him any time to observe her once more before she lifted herself over top of him to settle his tip between each of her folds. They muffled their subsequent grunts when she dropped herself down, happily accepting him.

She made the attempt to help their efforts in muffling their cries, pressing her lips to his and welcoming his grunt into her mouth with a smile. She dug her hips into him, grinding away in an attempt to build friction between them. She broke their kiss to adjust herself in his lap, frustrated that she was struggling to find a position that pleasured her.

Recognizing the frustrated crease between her brows—the same one he'd see when she struggled with a phrase of her music—he stood, taking her with him, and set her on the carpet of the floor. She cried inaudibly as he thrust into her, practically matching the rate of her heart. He lifted her leg, skimming his fingers over the back of her calf before leaning to press a kiss to the back of her heel.

She lost herself to the rhythm of his hips and the skating of his hands over her abdomen and towards her breasts. His fingers cupped the soft tissue there, holding them both with loving care. Whatever carpet she could gather into her fists, she did, resisting her oncoming orgasm with no success, collapsing beneath him. Slipping her arms around his back to encourage his climax proved itself effective, and he came, pressing into her one last time with the smallest of groans.

She laughed, truly laughed, for the first time that week. It almost hurt to do so. Her cheeks and lungs ached as the sound bounced off the walls around them, filling the entire room with her bliss.

She was happy. So utterly happy.


	5. Chapter 5

This was her favorite position: lying down, face up, his body tucked between her legs, bucking to and fro, edging her steadily towards euphoria. The bed frame creaked in tandem with his hips, his breathing labored and coming out in small, heated bursts by her ear.

It had already been the best day she'd had in a long time. It was a surprise that he even suggested they go out and spend an evening together.

 _I don't really have anything nice to wear,_ she texted back in response to his proposition. _I really want to go,_ she added hastily, afraid he might assume she was trying to avoid going out with him, _I just don't have a nice dress. I want to look pretty for you._

 _You always look pretty,_ he replied almost instantly.

Her heart thumped at that little four-worded message, and she read it several times over, the grin on her face growing with every pass of her eyes.

 _But a beautiful girl deserves a beautiful dress. Maybe I could pick you up earlier and take you somewhere you may find something?_

Her toes curled at the idea: almost an entire day with him. Not an hour-long lesson in the drawing room or a twenty-minute make-out-and-make-love session. An entire afternoon and evening with him. In public. Like an actual couple.

 _Yes._

He honestly wouldn't have suggested it. It wasn't like the thought never crossed his mind, it did constantly. Him and Christine, an actual couple. They'd look just like everyone else walking hand-in-hand down the street. Except… not.

That's what kept him away so much. He could steal her for an evening, take her someplace nice, dance, make love and get her back home before dawn, but only if he could be normal. If he could be the man she truly deserved—someone handsome, someone who could take her out to nice places and shower her with love, someone who wouldn't earn her odd glances from strangers—maybe then he could love her just as he wished to.

Mamma had been the one to change his mind. The evening she'd found out that there was something a little more between them, something a little more than teacher and student; after making love to Christine and leading her back out of the drawing room towards the piano; after he'd escorted her back to bed, tucked her in and kissed her goodnight, Mamma had sat him down at the dinner table to talk.

He told her how long they'd been together, that he was in love with her, that he was happy with her and that he hoped she was happy with him just as she always appeared to be.

Mamma seemed upset. She averted her eyes after he'd answered all her questions, focusing on a particular spot in the carpet by her feet.

"I'm sorry, madame," he apologized after an extended period of silence. "It was rude of me to entertain a relationship with Christine without your knowing. I hope you know that I never intended to overstep my boundaries as her teacher and that I never took advantage of her in any form, or at least never meant to if I had."

He had Mamma Valerius' full, unwavering gaze now—practically unreadable as it had been all evening.

"I don't regret anything we've shared and I'd like to continue a relationship with her, but if you do not wish it-"

"I want you to stay with her."

Erik had almost missed her comment, caught up in his own haze of an apology.

"If she is happy with you," Mamma continued, "I want you to be with her as often as possible."

Erik felt his heart lift with every note of Mamma's voice, a wonderful melody in spite of its lack for an actual harmony.

"I just ask that you take her out. She's practically holed herself up in this house since her father's passing. Some days its been hard just getting her to run a few errands with me."

Erik froze still. His love for this girl was endless. He desired doing so much with her; every day he envisioned them going to places and doing things other couples did. He saw them at the movies, visiting art museums, going for walks in the park and exchanging their theories for human existence. He dashed himself for being such a hopeless romantic, getting giddy even at the idea of holding her hand, but he couldn't help it. He wanted to do everything with her that he'd never had an ounce of courage to do on his own. Yet still.

"Madame, I…" Erik swallowed down the knot that was threatening to clog his throat. "I love Christine and I want to give her everything I can. It's just…" He reached his hand to his mask without finishing his sentence.

Mamma's shoulders slumped in disappointment and an air of uncertain silence passed between them.

"I need you to be brave for her then."

Erik straightened his posture as Mamma did and a tense wiriness returned to his frame. He nodded understandingly, noting the hard edge in her eyes.

"Erik."

He was close, so close to the horizon. He was ready to give in.

"Erik," Christine cried louder. His mind registered the concern laced in her voice and he pulled back, slipping out of her and lifting his face to hers.

"What's wrong?" he asked, acknowledging her tightly knit brows.

He watched her tongue dart out for a quick second, moistening her lips before she swallowed to steel herself. "Can you…" her voice trailed off and her eyes blinked away from his and to the labored rising of his chest.

"What is it, my dear?" He tried making himself sound as confident as possible though he felt uneasy. He'd never seen her so horribly discontent. It worried him that what he was doing was no longer good enough, that _he_ was no longer good enough to satisfy her.

"Can you take off your mask?"

Her request was so innocent it broke his heart. He knew it had been coming, in fact, had been long overdue.

Her eyes darted back to his when he did not speak or move, concerned he might not have heard her request at all. But the look in his eyes confessed otherwise, and her heart broke.

"I'm sorry," she apologized swiftly and breathlessly. "I shouldn't have-"

"No."

Christine paused, not breathing as his voice cut her off sharply. Even beneath the mask, she could see the firmness set in his jaw.

"You shouldn't have." He eased his tone, and his shoulders trembled as he tried to relax himself. "But I love you too much," he continued, "and I cannot deny you this as much as I want to."

Her heart twisted as tears began forming in his eyes. She thought she might just cry as well. She wasn't sure if this was any better; if she wished he would've just yelled at her and taken her home.

"I just ask that you close your eyes, Christine. Can you do that for me?"

She nodded and closed her eyes. She felt his body's warmth descend down between her legs; felt his arm move as he removed his mask; felt his breath brush through and against her curls, his mouth undeniably close.

She gasped inaudibly when his tongue finally joined her core, slowly lapping up the pleasure from their earlier efforts, dancing over and around and between her folds, occasionally darting to that sweet, sensitive little bead that made her squirm and squeal.

The abrasiveness that had once been his mask was now replaced with a soft, uneven texture, the cool tip of his mask's nose pressed into her flesh now absent. She wanted so desperately to open her eyes and steal a peek at the true man she'd come to love, but she could not take it upon herself to disrespect him so. She could not live with herself if she did. Not now at least.

He was surprised to lose himself in the thrill of it all; the vulnerableness and the cries of pure, unfiltered pleasure were enough for even him to give in and so he groaned with her, spending himself as she did.

He covered themselves in the bundle of blankets, turning her over and tucking his face into the back of her hair after they'd recovered from the height of their orgasms, the reality of the world returning to them after a blaze of blank, white light.

"I love you too, Christine."


	6. Chapter 6

Rain tapped against the windowpane as thunder rolled throughout the house.

Christine woke blinking out her blurred vision, her eyes slowly fixating on what small slivers of the moon she could make through the combination of both blinds and clouds. It was still late, she realized, the moon still high.

She sighed heavily, closing her eyes once more and turning her body so that she could get closer to Erik. She searched blindly for him, hoping to at least graze his slender arm with her fingertips. Instead, she found nothing but cold, empty sheets.

A crack of lightning sent thunder rolling back through the house again, the tapping of the rain growing in frequency.

Her entire body shivered as she sat up, the cold air of his house making her skin ripple with goosebumps. Piano music trailed into the room from under the doorway—a soft, enchanting melody she could not quite recognize at first, but then she remembered: it was the lullaby she had sung for him.

Christine clenched the top coverlet to her as she stood and shuffled to the bedroom door, opening it to find Erik sitting in the lamplight at the piano, his body relaxed in the same way it was when he played his violin.

She drew closer so she could get a better view of his playing, watching his hands dance over the keys, every note perfect. She wondered if he had already played the song before.

She drew closer again and noticed he had replaced his mask—dark silk satin tied neatly at the back of his head, almost not apparent against his thick headful of jet black hair.

He finished the song, leaving the final note resonating as thunder accompanied it.

"You learned it."

Erik's back straightened in a snap, his head turning over his shoulder to gaze in her direction. She froze still, realizing he had not detected her presence.

The shock and fear in his eyes settled as he looked over her, taking note of the coverlet she'd fixed around her shoulders.

"Did I wake you, my dear?" His voice was heavy and thicker than usual, and she shivered once more, the coverlet no longer any use.

"No," she said, reassuring him with a small shake of her head. "It's just the rain."

Lightning cracked outside, and the room lit for a small moment, the house trembling almost immediately with thunder. She shook as well.

"Ah... yes," he spoke slowly as if he hadn't even realized there was a storm; as if he'd been deaf. "Would you like to accompany me?"

Christine looked over in the direction of his open kitchen in an attempt to make out what time it was. But the red glow his microwave's digital clock was all too far for her to read. She decided to join him for the moment—anything if it meant getting him back into bed.

He moved over to allow her some room on the bench, smiling for a second as she sat, and began playing. He added a simple underlying melody as she sang, transforming the song into something entirely new.

She closed her eyes as the song finished, only opening them again to look at Erik, hoping he would lock eyes with her as she did. Instead, she found his eyes closed.

She watched him for a moment, catching the building tremble in his jaw before a sob caught in his throat. "I don't know how much longer I can do this, Christine."

Her mind ran wild with what he meant before he turned to her, the tears glazing his eyes.

"I can't do this," he decided, his fingers clenching around nothing but air as if he were holding back from tearing something apart. "I love you, Christine. I've been in love with you, and I cannot go on with any of this."

Emotions of confusion, bewilderment, and grief all piled up in the pit of her stomach.

"What do you mean?" she asked, her voice small.

"You are undeserving of a lifetime with this," he said, gesturing harshly to his face, "and I cannot- will not subject you to it."

Her heart sank, and the pile built up to her throat, threating to disable her speech entirely. "What do you mean?" she repeated now through tears.

He clenched at the coverlet around her. "Do you not understand?" he sobbed. "You can have something better, you know? You're perfect in every shape and form a-and I'm a ghost of a man that could've been, and you deserve better than what I can provide."

She sat there gaping for a moment, and the pile washed away with her vexation. "Do _you_ not understand?" she spit the question back in Erik's face. "Do you not understand how much _I_ love _you_? Do you not see how enraptured I am with your music, the way you touch me and kiss me, the way you talk to me? Did you not hear how I giggled at dinner with you? Did you not feel that electricity as I did? Did you not feel it later in bed?"

He bowed his head pitifully as he sobbed. "Christine, that is not at all what I mean."

"What then?" she demanded. "Because I cannot understand why you'd decide to break my heart now unless otherwise!"

"Because I never want you to live with this!"

With one swift lift of his arm, he pulled his mask up and over, revealing to her the harsh truth of his reality. The uneven texture of his cheek which she had felt earlier was spread all about his face, barely missing his mouth and chin. She'd noticed before how deeply set his eyes were into his skull, but the fact did not bother her, not until now at least, his death-like appearance accompanied with the gaping hole where his nose should've been.

"Am I handsome, Christine?" he yelled, horrifying her all the more. "Is this what you'd like to wake up to every morning? Is this the face of the man you imagined making love to you? The man who would kiss and hold you, wed you, father your children?"

She sat there beside him, frozen in horror, only capable of breathing and trembling, not sure of whether she was more afraid of him or his face.

Christine wasn't quite sure whether she'd blacked out or just blocked it all out completely, but by the time she woke in her own bed the next morning, she was glad to be home.

At first, she thought it was all a dream. Just one large, terrible dream. But the onyx ring on her finger suggested otherwise, and she ached.

* * *

 _A/N: No smex this chapter, sorry!_

 _Also, there may or may not be only two more chapters left after this... we'll see._

 _Thanks for reading, as always!_


	7. Chapter 7

He never understood why he was this way. Even at a young age, he had convinced himself that the "great man" in the sky hated him. That was why he looked this way; that was why he could never belong.

She had loved him. Surely she had. Why else would she had craved his touch? His music? His presence?

She convinced herself she wanted to see it—the horrors beneath his mask that not even he could bear on his own. But she didn't understand his reality, and she needed to know. She had to. Right?

He wasn't quite sure anymore. He tried convincing himself it was for the best. He had always been on his own. That was what society wanted; what God wanted.

Still. He couldn't help but be angry. Angry at himself, angry at society, angry at God.

The bathroom mirror was the only mirror he kept in the house. If he could maintain what little of himself was bearable to look at—his teeth, his hair, the cleanliness of his clothes—he would do it. But not without a quick glance in the mirror.

This, however, was not one of those quick glances, and not for self-grooming. His teeth had not been brushed; his hair had not been washed nor combed; his clothes had not been pressed or changed. He wore no mask either. It was just him—Erik in his rawest, ugliest form.

His eyes roamed over every detail of his face. He had made an effort to memorize every imperfection before, but those efforts had fallen flat in the face of denial. He _couldn't_ look this way. _No man_ could look this way.

Then came the question: Was he a man?

He had never felt like a man. The world believed he was not; the world did not think he deserved what all other men deserved. Love, affection, acceptance: these were the things he could never know.

But then she came. Christine. Beauty and innocence and normality. Everything he had ever wanted all in one real, tangible woman. And she gave herself to him; allowed him to share music with her in a way he never thought possible for himself. And he pushed her out. God had given him one chance—a chance to have everything he ever desired—and now even he denied himself that. Now he was no better than anyone else.

He slammed his fist into the mirror where his face was, breaking the glass into multiple fragments. When he pulled away, he noticed the blood spilling down his knuckle and his wrist. Another glance up and his face was still there, broken and fragmented but still there. He slammed his other fist into the mirror, sending the center shattering into his sink.

It took a moment for the pulsing ache to begin, the adrenaline of the moment wearing off. He sank to the floor as his hands began to shake, eyes roaming over the bloodied ridges of his knuckles. The idea of running off to treat his wounds was far beyond him. _This is it_ , he thought.

Tears strained his eyes, exhaustion becoming more evident within him. He thought he could fight everything off with music—he always had—but this time he could not. It didn't matter what he played. He couldn't stop thinking of her.

Her name was on his lips now, ugly and broken between sobs. He pounded his head back against the wall, stopping when her name caught in his throat mid-sob.

He would die, he thought. He would surely die. _This is it._

How much time had passed before the doorbell rang, he was unsure. His crying had slowed with the call for sleep, and he wasn't even quite sure if it had been his doorbell he'd heard or some sound from Heaven.

No. It was not Heaven. He could not be going to Heaven.

The doorbell rang again and his eyes flung open. He used the sink to steady himself as he stood, being careful not to cut his hands any further with any broken fragments of glass. Not that it would've mattered anyway.

His eyes shot to the kitchen clock as he rushed through the living room. Far too late in the night for an appropriate visit, he realized. The doorbell rang again as he neared it. Twice now, more impatient.

He paused. Whoever it was, at this hour, they were unwanted. He had intended for his night to end alone, without disturbance, yet here someone was... bothering him.

He would scare them off, he decided. Once they'd see his face, they'd run and warn everyone about the horrible thing that lives inside the house. It would further justify himself continuing the night as it had been going. Maybe they'd catch the blood on his hands and call the police. Or perhaps it would be some time before the police would come to investigate, and they'd find him dead. If he were lucky, it'd be months later; when his body was supposed to look like a skeleton.

He twisted the deadbolt of his door and threw it open in an instant, managing the most wicked expression he could.

His expression dissolved in a flash at the sight of her: the girl he'd already scared off, drenched from the rain that was pouring outside.

"Ch-Christine?"

She smiled a bit. Oh, even the tiniest, most unsure raise of her lips was enough to send his heart racing.

Panic ensued as he remembered what he'd done, the sharp pain rushing back through as if it had gotten jealous at the fact that he had deviated his attention away from it even for just a moment. Unsure of what else to do, he lifted his hands for her viewing.

Her smile faded in an instant, her face becoming a reflection of his own internal horror.

Christine pushed her way in without invitation, setting the violin case he'd not seen strapped around her back on the floor along with an overnight bag. She ran into the kitchen where she knew she hung his keys and pulled him out of the house by the shoulder of his dress shirt, leading him into his vehicle without so much as a word.

She was driving fast, he knew, but he could not take his eyes off of her and her beautiful, worried little face. He was still stunned. Surely he had died. But where had he gone? This was not Heaven, not Hell either. This was something in-between; real and not real at the same time.

"When did you do that, Erik?"

Her question sliced clean through the burning silence. Erik looked back down at his hands, blood still slowly trickling out around shards of glass. "Tonight."

He fixed his gaze back on her as tears began to roll down her cheeks. " _Why?_ " Her question was strangled, almost silent.

There was no direct answer, he knew. A lifetime of anger, possibly. But he wasn't sure what to point at first, and explaining would be useless in both their states of mind.

He remained silent.

Christine blinked away her tears, trying to maintain her focus on the road. "Erik-" she choked. "I-I'm sorry. If I knew... I wouldn't have-"

"Please, Christine," he cried. "Do not apologize for something that is not your doing. You have been through so much. I am sorry that I..." his voice trailed off. If he could apologize for everything in a few short words, he could. "I'm sorry that I cannot control myself. I-I should've refused to touch you when you first asked me because I knew..." he shook his head in frustration. "I knew I would fall in love."

Her knuckles went white on the steering wheel, her heart churning with a million thoughts—all which she wanted to say, none which she knew to say first.

"I've never known that, Christine. I've never known what it is to be loved, to be wanted. I've only been able to replicate those feelings through music, but I've realized that what I've understood—what I thought I understood—of love all my life has been nothing but false. It is so much more."

His eyes shot to the ring on her finger. "You kept it," he whispered, mostly to himself, a small smile forming on his face.

She shot a quick glance in his direction to see what he was looking at and smiled realizing it was the ring. "Of course," she said. "You think I'd give up on loving you so easily?"

He frowned. "It has been two weeks. I thought maybe..." he trailed off, realizing how foolish he'd been.

She shook her head. "No, Erik. Not after everything you've given me."

Silence swelled between them.

"I have not given you enough. I have given you my music, my love, and I have taken you out to dinner once, but there is so much more. I know it." He swallowed as his eyes roamed back over her face, darting to that stray little freckle on the side of her jaw. "Tell me everything you want, Christine. I will make it happen."

* * *

They finally made it to bed after an hour of cleaning the bathroom. In spite of Christine's protests in consideration of his new stitches, Erik insisted he brush her matted, frizzy hair after she changed into one of his shirts for the night—her bag of clean clothes was much too drenched for her to wear to bed.

Christine smiled and hummed blissfully as she felt the bristles of her hairbrush stroke her scalp, easing out the tangles that had formed from her walk between the bus stop and his house in the rain. It was nice for once to be able to relax after everything that had occurred in the night, knowing he was safe and okay and she was just as well.

Slipping one of his bandaged hands under her arm and around her abdomen, he set her brush aside at the foot of the bed, pushing back a few curls from her neck for better access. Her humming ceased as his lips skimmed along the curve of her neck, planting a few loving, wet kisses there in a jagged line.

He lifted his lips once more, reaching to pull back the collar of her buttondown shirt so that he could dip his fingers beneath it and trace the protruding bone that was her clavicle.

A small, easy hand against his wrist stopped him in his tracks, and his heart leaped with anxiety. "Not tonight," she said. "I'm tired, and all I want to do right now is fall asleep in your arms."

Erik smiled at her whisper of words and happily folded her into an embrace. He had turned up the thermostat just enough to know she'd be comfortable without a blanket around her and worked their limbs into a tangled mess, hoping their bodies would not part in the night.

* * *

 _A/N: This isn't the final chapter, by the way. :)_


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: Big thank-you to everyone who has read this story. When I posted the first chapter, I was certain that would be it. It was just something I'd written in the need for some fresh E/C smut... I'm so glad many others enjoyed it as well, haha. I hope to be back again with something similar M-rated, just with an actual pre-determined plot._

 _Thanks again!_

* * *

"See that star over there?"

Christine smiled at the sound of Erik's voice, low in her right ear, and followed his finger as it lifted to the night sky.

They were an hour out in the country, far from all the clamor of civilization. No clouds in the sky, the warm summer air encompassing them as they laid on top of a blanket in the grass—a perfect night.

"Which one?" she asked, searching amongst the many stars in the sky for the one he was pointing to.

Erik adjusted himself a bit, moving closer, leaning into her as he tried seeing the sky from where she laid. "That one, the brightest one."

Her eyes fell upon the one he'd been pointing to, and she smiled once more. "Yes, I see it."

Erik allowed his hand to fall back to his side and remained glancing up at the star. "Sirius, the brightest star in the night sky."

"It's beautiful."

Erik turned to her, swallowing at the sight of her. It didn't matter how long it'd been since he'd first seen her; he was always awestruck by her beauty. He fixed his gaze back upon the star. "I think we should rename it. Christine seems apt."

Christine tilted her head back in his direction, trying to bite back a laugh by frowning through her smile. "Is that allowed?"

Erik shrugged and blinked in her direction. "If the ancients could name the constellations and every star in the sky, why can't I?"

Christine released her laughter, turning onto her side to hit his shoulder with the back of her hand. "You're so cliche."

Erik froze as her knee pressed into the side of his thigh, her hand falling to the inside of his elbow, playing carefully with the cotton fabric of his dress shirt. He sucked in a sharp gasp of air, drawing her attention up to his masked face, his eyes wide and full of every color of admiration she'd seen before within him. She froze now, her smile vanishing in an instant. She rolled back over to glance back up at the sky.

It had been a month since his hand had healed, his stitches removed. They both agreed to slow things down. Christine had convinced herself that she'd pushed him all too quick—with the mask and with their love. It was all too much for them both. Every kiss and every touch quickly sent them over the edge and left them both burning for more.

Sleeping with one another was just as challenging. Cuddling led to kissing, kissing to making out, making out to grasping, grasping to grinding, grinding to frantic separation. It was hard for them to help themselves, and so Erik agreed to prepare a separate room for when she stayed over. Even then, after a night out together, it was hard going to bed knowing there was someone else—another hand willing to help in the other's relief—only two doors away.

"You know," Erik continued plainly, "Sirius is part of the constellation Canis Major. The Greeks associated it with the dog Laelaps who was known for catching everything it pursued."

Silence ensued as Christine made no reply, trying to make out the image of the dog in the sky, playing a game of connect-the-dots.

"Laelaps was gifted to a king who desired to use the dog to catch the Teumessian fox. The irony was the fox could never be caught."

Christine's brows furrowed up at the night sky. "So what, they ran forever?"

"Until Zeus turned them to stone and then into stars."

Christine exhaled a half-hearted breath of air and sighed. "Life does feel like that sometimes, it seems."

Erik dared to look in her direction once more, his brow raised beneath his mask.

"Like you can do everything, have everything, all except for that one thing you've been chasing after." She glanced at him after he did not comment; her brows still furrowed from her failed attempt to find the dog. "Do you ever feel that way?"

Erik swallowed and shook his head slowly. "Not so much as of late."

Her brows gradually unfurrowed themselves, and she rolled back into his side, ignoring how his breath quickened. His hand caught hers as she reached for his mask, his eyes filled by fear and something else she could not quite place.

"Christine," he breathed something of a plea.

She ignored him and pushed on, his grasp loosening in an instant as he realized fighting her was no use; he wanted her touch. She removed the mask, placing it in the grass above their heads. He watched her push herself up onto her elbow, fixing herself until she was straddling him. He whimpered as her face became nothing more than a shadow closing on his, her lips pressing against his for the first time in what felt like an eternity.

When she broke away, it was to lift her shirt over her head, exposing the black lace of her bra as she tossed the article of clothing to the side.

"Christine," he pleaded louder.

She froze atop of him. Even in the pale moonlight, she could make out every imperfection of his face, including the enlarged pupils of his sunken eyes.

He sighed quietly, relieved he'd successfully captured her attention, but although his mouth rested open, words failed to escape. She could see it in his eyes, however—that hesitance that always seemed to linger in the back of his mind.

"Do I have to remind you how to touch me?" she teased lightheartedly, playing with the tip of his collar in a way that made his heart sway.

"Oh, Christine," he groaned, his eyes dropping to her bra.

She felt his hands lift to hover by her hips, and when he didn't lay them there, she guided them and dragged them along, up her waist to her breasts, sucking in a sharp breath of air as she did so, his skin stippling hers with its cool touch. She caught his throat as it bobbed, his breath hitching as she pressed her fingers over his, driving him to squeeze into the soft tissue there.

She gasped as she released him, his thumbs immediately moving to brush over the tips of her breasts, her bra practically paper-thin.

She shifted in his lap as he sat up to reach around her back, his fingers finding the clasp of her bra and pushing inwards, releasing the hooks before he helped the straps down her arms. She pulled away from him to help ease the bra off, tossing it in the direction of her shirt.

His mouth closed around her left breast in an instant, his finger and thumb around her right, teasing her and groaning as she writhed in pleasure. He lifted away with a small plop, satisfied with her cries, and helped her settle back against the blanket.

Even after they'd removed her shirt and bra, it still seemed as if she was wearing too much, and he practically tore her shorts off along with her underwear, throwing them over his shoulder without much regard as to where they landed.

He approached her again cautiously, glancing back and forth between her face and her slick core as he eased her legs apart, his heart stammering at the sight of her blush. He paused before her, fully prepared to stop if she wished it so. Instead, she nodded, and he did not hesitate to press a kiss into her soft, pink skin. Her head fell back against the blanket, and she whimpered as he delved his tongue into her, curling every toe in the air when he moved to circle her sweet, aching pearl, pressing one tantalizing finger into her, then two.

He waited patiently for her to snap, bucking towards him as her legs proceeded to tremble, her hands bunching into the blanket below as she pronounced her end with a scream. She nearly sobbed when he parted, desiring more.

When he finally rose after using his pant leg to clean his fingers, she rose as well, crawling towards him on feeble limbs, her eyes fixed on the hardness in his pants. He stopped her hands before they could reach his belt buckle, uncertainty clouding his eyes once more. But when she offered him those sad, imploring eyes—the ones he could never resist—his grip lingered for only a second more, and she worked hastily to unfasten his belt, then the button of his pants.

He groaned when she took him into her hand, placing a kiss to his shaft before she proceeded to palm his length, remembering exactly how much pressure he enjoyed.

His eyes fell close before she pushed him back to the ground, fixing herself over him once more.

"Ch-Christine," his voice faltered in concern, and he rose onto his elbows.

"Shh," she hushed him. "Everything will be fine."

She offered him an assuring smile and leaned down to kiss him before taking his length back into her hand. He reluctantly relaxed and watched as she settled him into her, both of them grunting as she fell. He gripped her thighs as she moved about above him—a star amongst the many others, shining before him.

He had thought of how much she'd grown since their first lesson. The shy little blonde who knew as much about music as he knew about love had blossomed in the few months they'd known one another. Their lessons became nothing more than sharing music—him playing little tunes on her father's violin, her singing tunes that clenched his heart—and what was meant to last an hour extended past dinnertime, and often until the sun found its way back in the sky.

She'd begun to wear her favorite clothes again, do her hair and makeup as she pleased, and go out without giving much care as to who judged her for smiling and being in love with the man on her arm. Not even for a moment did she regret giving herself over so swiftly, and neither did he.

The abiding loneliness Erik had suffered, loneliness that not even music could comfort, had met its end at last. And, for the first time, he felt like a man. Not a machine spitting out compositions at every waking moment, not a personification of misfortune. A real, human man who could love and be loved back.

Because of this heavenly creature before him, he was no longer an empty void that moved as the world desired him to. He was Erik—a man, a musician, a lover.

And she was his star, beautiful and bright.


End file.
